March 8, 2008

By he, of course I mean anyone but me. I have a friend that has these thoughts, never me...

He wanted to write about the falling leaves of autumn, and how walking through the streets of hometown in the fall always made him feel as if he was stuck in some kind of a dream. A dream where they never run out of achingly beautiful orange and gold drops falling from the heavens.

But it was winter and those branches not taken by the summer's tornado are now barren...

He desperately wanted to tell you all something so poignant and beautiful that it would reach into you and draw your tears from the deepest darkest parts of your soul. You know those places you don't talk about at the bar on Friday, or at Sunday morning service. He was reaching inside himself for something true, for something so deep that he would certainly know it when he saw it.

When he pulled his hands back before his eyes, they were only filled with sand...

He would have loved to have taken you all someplace special where he knew the doorman and could get you in without having to wait in line. Someplace special where his wink and smile would dim the lights and the evening would ease into a night you would remember and keep with you for the rest of your life, all right on cue.

But it's 4 am and he's alone at work in a dusty, silent, old warehouse...

He'd love to hit his blog 3 times a day with articulate and funny things he noticed about life. Some quip that keeps you giggling the rest of the afternoon. He'd love to really shake it up and say not just what he means, but the things that would make a real difference. The things that would rattle the cages and make people stop and take note.

No time for irony or twists of fate, he is far too busy living for all of that...

He would love to sit and talk with you all one at a time and fill up his mind with all the things you have to offer, all your intelligence and creativity. He would love to sit at the keyboard and pick your brain in the catbox until you could hardly stand him anymore.

Some days he feels it so strongly, this compulsion to communicate becomes so powerful that he calls his friends when he has nothing to say. He'd be happy just to hear them breathing really. To say something neither beautiful nor intelligent but something pertaining to both. Mostly he just looks around this dusty old hole and wonders how he got stuck at the bottom of the food chain.

But sometimes, just once in a while he gets up off his arse and tries to make something worth reading. In truth and fairness it's probably not even about the creation itself. In the end he probably wrote this only so he wouldn't be lonely.